


What Howls Restrained by Decorum

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Rough Sex, Slash, Smut, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's return, John starts to move on.   Sherlock doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Howls Restrained by Decorum

**Author's Note:**

> ANGST! Did I mention the dubious consent? Title from [this nicely Sherlock-feeling chunk of Leaves of Grass](http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/W/WhitmanWalt/8littleonesl.htm).

**Title:** What Howls Restrained by Decorum  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** dub-con, rough sex  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock, John/Mary  
 **Time Frame:** post series 2  
 **Author's Notes:** ANGST! Did I mention the dubious consent? Title from [this nicely Sherlock-feeling chunk of Leaves of Grass](http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/W/WhitmanWalt/8littleonesl.htm).  
 **Summary:** After Sherlock's return, John starts to move on. Sherlock doesn't.

 

 

"I think I know about all I'm ever going to about your methods." John hesitates, keeps glancing between Sherlock and the television. "So . . . well. It's just as well Mary and I are moving in together. I mean. It's overdue, really." He clears his throat, trying to be businesslike, and seems to think he can go back to watching telly without further comment.

"Are you seriously expecting congratulations?" Sherlock drawls, curling up in his chair a little more snugly.

John looks hurt, which he shouldn't. "Remind me again, because oddly enough I keep forgetting— _why_ do you care who I do and don't date?"

"It's not _her_ , John," Sherlock says impatiently. "In fact she's one of the more intelligent women I've been acquainted with."

John snorts. "She'd be flattered."

"You're both perfectly capable people as long as you don't allow emotions to interfere with logic, which is unfortunately what has happened, here." John opens his mouth— "Do whatever you like, but I really don't know why you think I'm likely to approve of your casual abandonment of reason."

John laughs. "Yeah, I think I'll somehow manage to function in the world, even with regular sex and someone to come home to who's, you know, nice to me."

"Do what you like," Sherlock says again, but John continues to eye him warily, all pretense of television-watching forgotten. It buzzes on in a blur in the background, though.

"I'll not move out til we've found you a new flatmate or at least another place, although I think you'll probably be better off staying here since other landlords are unlikely to be quite so sympathetic to the gunshots and the bloodstains."

Sherlock is silent, appraises drowsy John Watson in his fuzziest jumper and everyday jeans and can't imagine why it still makes him squirm a little, after all this time. "This is about the inheritance," Sherlock decides.

"What? No. _No_. Come on, Sherlock. That has nothing to do with—"

"You're always terribly concerned about money. You never had plans to move in with her before she became an heiress. That's the only thing that's changed."

"Actually it's not," John says, then takes a deep breath, though Sherlock can't imagine what for. "We're engaged."

"Yes, but that doesn't change things."

"Erm, of course it changes—hang on, you _knew_?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Last I checked, the shopping didn't cost upwards of thirteen-hundred pounds."

"Of course. Of course you hack into my bank account instead of just asking after my wellbeing like a normal person."

That hadn't been the reason. Sherlock had considered the kind of man John was, the type of ring Mary would expect, and the amount of money John would be willing to spend. An amount which had gone missing from John's savings rather conspicuously about a month ago. It wasn't rocket science. John rehearsing his proposal in the bathroom when he didn't think Sherlock was around was also a bit of a giveaway. "It _is_ what people do, I suppose," Sherlock says, fingering melodies on the arm of his chair. "Get married. Start a family. Sit on a pile of questionably-gotten gains and live wealthily ever after." Sherlock knows that that isn't it at all, but he also knows how much the presumption irritates John.

John speaks very mildly: "Okay, time to start leaving Mary out of this."

"Don't see why I should—she's the one taking you away from me." Sherlock figures that sounds just needy enough to appeal to John.

" _No_ , she's—" John glares to himself and calms. "No. I am taking myself away from you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really John, there's no need to be so dra—"

"You fog things up, Sherlock," John says, just as mildly, drums his fingers on his knee and looks away from him. "You always have. You spin me about."

"Well." A feeling like sickness creeps up on Sherlock. Chronic boredom with this tiresome conversation, probably. "You've never complained about it before."

"No, well, that was before, wasn't it? Just . . ." John pinches the bridge of his nose. "You couldn't trust me enough to at least tell me what you were doing?"

Bit non sequitur, but they've had _that_ conversation often enough that Sherlock knows what he means. "No," he says, and to John's stricken expression, adds, "You're too invested. Biased. You always make the mistake of caring too much."

John is far from placated. "Right. Well, I'm awfully sorry about that, Sherlock, really . . . "

"Take Mary, for example," Sherlock goes on. "Of course you care very much about her. You care very much about everyone. That's not the same as romantic love."

"I love Mary. The problem isn't her. It's that you make it so I can't get you out of my head, okay not . . . not like _that_. That's not what I mean. Under different circumstances, I wouldn't . . . I would've . . . look, the thing is that you can't actually change circumstances. So."

"Right, yes, very good," Sherlock says absently. "Go and live with Mary, then." He turns back to the television, immersing himself.

John waits for Sherlock to say something more for a couple of commercials, then barks a laugh and stands, muttering, "Oh, just sod this. Seriously," as he walks away.

Sherlock sits in the living room staring at the screen for a long while after John storms upstairs, and he has trouble thinking.

It's disquieting to say the least.

*

The first potential flatmate comes by when John's out with Mary, sampling wedding cakes or whatever it was that people did.

He's an arrogant young businessman with a second hand suit who's never lived on his own before. He was born rather more working class, though, and is hiding it badly, accent keeps slipping. "Ah, nice little flat you have here," he says as he steps over the threshold.

"Yes." It's an utter mess, actually, with half packed boxes piled up in the corner and half drunk cups of coffee decorating every available surface. John had stayed up til 4 in the morning attempting to organize his life into neat little boxes, but it didn't seem to have done him any good.

"So," the businessman says, turning to Sherlock with a smarmy little smile playing around his lips. "What do _you_ do for a living?"

"I'm a private detective." John seemed to think the term was less confusing for clients.

The businessman's brow wrinkles disdainfully. "I _see_. And you make a steady paycheck doing this, do you?"

"I do fine."

"I mean, don't get me wrong, sounds all right for a lark, but have you ever thought about getting a real job? I can probably swing an interview at my firm." He doesn't have a firm; Sherlock starts to wonder if he's not so much a businessman as a 'businessman'.

"No thanks." Sherlock mimics his sneer.

"No? Okay, mate, if that's what you want. Now, I'll have to speak with my current landlord—" Parents—no, just mother. Divorced. He's the youngest of three. "—but I expect I'll have my affairs in order by next week at the latest."

"No thanks," Sherlock repeats, then just stands there until the businessman works it out, mumbles a goodbye and edges out of the flat awkwardly.

*

_Emotions_. Sherlock can't stand the way they hide behind one another, morphing and peeking out at random to shine to the forefront again, this stupidly complex kaleidoscope of evolutionarily-informed impulses.

Sherlock is excellent with words, but even he can't articulate the reason he feels instantly sickened whenever he looks at John, now. It's a feeling like a smell that recalls a childhood memory, but a memory that's been marred by its context somehow—being punished or throwing a tantrum or something—so that horrible, unreasonable childish frustration got under your skin all over again.

"You're in love with her," Sherlock says skeptically, and John gives him the oddest look. "What?"

"We're at a crime scene, Sherlock."

"Oh good, you're starting to pay attention at last."

"Sherlock, just." He sighs. "Later, okay?"

Later, John says, "Of course I'm in love with her," as they climb into a cab. "I asked her to marry me, didn't I?"

"Not loving someone hasn't stopped people from getting married for centuries of human history."

John laughs, not too snidely. "Yes, well, in this case I do love her. Or can you not deduce that from my shoelaces or something?"

Sherlock squints at him. "What is it exactly that you suppose love is?"

John laughs again, and Sherlock starts to think they aren't in the middle of a politely undeclared fight. "Love is what people have when they like each other, just instinctively, and without trying to. It's when you can talk to somebody about anything and never worry about their reaction."

"No, that's wrong."

"Oh, and you'd know, would you?"

"Love is trusting another person with the knowledge of how vulnerable they make you."

"Well all right, Keats, don't get all romantic on me." He looks a bit taken aback, though. Clearly John didn't think Sherlock understood psychology, but it was a collection of facts as much as anything else, and facts that were immensely useful in his work, at that.

"You can't leave me." Sherlock doesn't say it very entreatingly. If he had, John would assume he was acting.

John laughs, uncategorizable. "And why not? You left me, and yeah, okay, I know—"

Sherlock heaves a sigh. "John, that was different . . . "

"Nope, don't care." John is so angry so quickly, like he's been waiting for Sherlock to give him an excuse for it. "You still left me. No matter how noble or selfless you were in doing it, and no matter that you came back, that doesn't change that you left me. That doesn't make it not have happened, and that doesn't erase what I went through. It definitely doesn't erase you not telling me. I know it's not fair, I do, but I can't get past it. I just can't."

"I," Sherlock enunciates. John's annoyance is contagious. "Save _d_ you."

"Did you, though? Did you really save me at all, in the end? Oh yeah, I know, you stopped a sniper. Got it. Sherlock, you've ruined me for a normal life worse than the bloody army ever did. You use me all the time, in so many ways, and I've always gone along with it, and for what?"

"John, you know I—"

"No, I'm absolutely sick of hearing you talk, actually. I'm sick of you telling me what I am and what I'm not and what to think and what I'm thinking, and I'm just sick of you, Sherlock. I need to get out of—" He gestures between them. "— _this_ before you tell me what I do and don't want and I listen. Again."

Sherlock absorbs, means to let John cool down a little but finds he's itching for a fight just as much. He manages to keep his voice mostly neutral to say, "How long have you even known her?"

"Oho, no, you don't get to play that card. How long after I met you were we _living together_?"

"Thirty-eight hours."

"Right! Yeah." John takes a moment to frown at Sherlock's specificity. "Yeah. And another thing! _Where do you get off_?"

"Sorry?"

"I know you, Sherlock, and you enjoy this. You enjoy manipulating me."

"A bit."

"Just. Why me?" John pinches the bridge of his nose. He's been doing that a lot, lately. "Why me . . ."

"I don't know." Sherlock watches him and finds that he has no taste for John reacting to him, in this case.

Something in John's hardened eyes falters, and Sherlock knows he's won him over, again, at least for an instant. He's not as pleased about this as he normally is.

John makes a derisive little noise and leans away from him, forehead pressed resolutely to the glass of the window. Just looking at him feels complicated.

*

The next candidate is a meek sort of man, probably an artist of some kind—yes, a guitarist, in fact. He's well off but dresses in ill-fitting vintage clothes. He's had those shoes for at least seven years, and he wears them virtually every day.

"Utilities included, right?"

Sherlock nods.

The man glances nervously at him when he doesn't speak, then glances nervously away, then glances nervously around the flat and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Problem?"

"No!" Startled. "No, no, it's fine. Just—good part of town, yeah?"

"I suppose. I do tend to attract some rather unsavory characters, though."

"Oh, right. Right." The man gives up pretending to understand. "What d'you mean?"

Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets. "I'm a consulting detective." Bugger John and his supposed expertise on the ordinary man, anyway. "I've clients who bring their cases to me, here."

"Oh . . ." He swallows. "Doesn't that get dangerous, mixing work with, you know, where you live, like?"

Sherlock shrugs. "The clients aren't really all that dangerous. Nor are the criminals I inevitably encounter because of them. Usually."

"Well, if you say so . . . "

"No," Sherlock continues, looking out the window. "It's really only one maniacal criminal mastermind in particular who's been stalking me the last couple of years that poses some potential danger, I suppose, but other than tha—"

When Sherlock turns back around the flat is empty. He smiles.

*

Sherlock sits in the kitchen and watches John making breakfast. There are copies of the lease and a complex diagram of the seating for the wedding infiltrating Sherlock's chemistry equipment on the table.

John doesn't look at him, and Sherlock wants to kiss him.

It's a strange little impulse, like craving a particular sweet or feeling like exercising or the shock of muscle memory when you pick up a long disused instrument. He thinks of other times he's wanted to kiss John, summoned up in his mind's eye to play an unsolicited slideshow: John in his chair in his red button-up shirt, John cold at a crime scene and struggling not to let his teeth chatter, John angry in the kitchen with just-woke-up hair, John laughing from the shadows in a cab at 2 AM. John looking away and smiling at something Sherlock had said countless times in all different moods and settings.

John's turned to look at him, probably cleared his throat or something to get Sherlock's attention. He faces the work surface again now and continues scraping butter over toast. "Don't tell me why I'm leaving," he says preemptively. "I'm leaving because the longer I stay the more impossible leaving will be." He pauses, clearly biting his tongue and debating with himself. "I still don't completely believe that you're really alive, and once it finally sinks in that you are, I'll be stuck."

"You used to like being stuck with me," Sherlock remarks.

"Yeah." John stops pretending he's absorbed in the minutiae of breakfast food.

Sherlock stands and walks around their kitchen table in the silence, little quiet shifting footsteps over tile. He takes the knife from John's hand, turns John around and pulls him against his chest when he tries to sidestep. "You still do."

John's face presses into Sherlock's shoulder. He burrows even closer and must be smashing his nose painfully and it's so vulnerable and un-John-like that Sherlock's heart beats harder in his chest. Sherlock can smell his hair.

John breathes, "Yeah," against Sherlock's shirt and sounds like he hates himself.

Sherlock has to swallow before speaking. "What do I do?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What do I do to return things to normal?"

John laughs, which Sherlock feels more than hears. "Define normal."

"I'll do anything you say to fix this, you know."

"I . . . now who's being dramatic?"

"I _am_ dramatic." Sherlock is horribly frustrated with John—John never yields to him, anymore. Sherlock doesn't know how to function with him, outside of that. " _Tell me_ what to do."

John sighs, relaxing against him. "You can't do anything."

Sherlock once came across a hyperbole that described having one's heart in one's mouth. He hadn't fully understood it at the time, and he doesn't now, really, but he also can't think of anything else to call this feeling.

"Sherlock, I'm sor—" John sighs again. "You can't do anything."

But Sherlock begs to differ. He tips John's chin up and kisses him, and the choked off sound John spills into Sherlock's mouth makes Sherlock have to clutch him closer and think _Please_ but fail to deduce what he's asking for. It's clear John prioritizes romantic relationships over friendships, so maybe this is what he wants from Sherlock, and maybe this is what needs to happen to make him stay.

John tears himself away, and the gentle shift of air as he passes by sticks to Sherlock's skin.

*

The third potential flatmate smiles and says, "Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes."

He's a successful lawyer of modest means. He probably fights the good fight, and because of that he isn't flush with money. He's happy with his life, and looking for a flat share isn't an act of desperation, for him. He could live here, or he could live somewhere else. He doesn't need to be here, in particular. He doesn't need anything, actually.

"No," Sherlock says, and closes the door in his baffled face.

*

Sherlock is exhausted. Living with John for the last few weeks had been, more or less, a series of arguments separated by periods of recharging for the next one. The change of scenery doesn't seem to be improving things.

John walks into the bare-walled house, sets a mirror against the wall and looks around at the maze of boxes and lamps and the things Mary's already begun to unpack. "That's the last of it," he says, satisfied. "Can't quite believe you actually leant a hand."

"I didn't. I hired movers."

"Yes well." John keeps the smile on his face and pretends to be surveying the house, but there's no reason for it other than to avoid looking at Sherlock. "Still. I do appreciate it."

Sherlock can't stand the way John avoids everything. "Do you honestly not understand why I didn't tell you I was faking my death?"

John's tone is light, like they're just chatting about the weather: "I do understand it." He walks over to a picture of her family Mary's hung up already, straightens it needlessly for something to do.

Sherlock sighs, makes to leave.

John stands there with his hand still touching the picture frame while he talks. "You had so many chances, you know. And only now that I'm fed up with you do you even act like you even give a shit."

Why can't John understand this? If Sherlock 'opens up', perhaps utters particular collections of words to particular people, proclamations or assurances or what have you—if Sherlock does that, it lowers his shields and gives whoever's heard it the advantage. On top of that, he's never confident he knows how true the words actually are, and the last thing Sherlock wants to do is be wrong. And because of this he has always doubted feelings, and feelings, for their part, have never been honest with him at all. They weren't quantifiable, so why should he pretend to understand them?

"Yes," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, but—wait. You're agreeing with me?"

"Clearly you can't be reasoned with," Sherlock shrugs. "All you want is for someone to justify your irrational reaction to a lie that saved your life so you can stop feeling guilty about it."

John faces him, and Sherlock thinks for a minute he's about to punch him, but it's just another kiss. John's mouth against his and the sick feeling in Sherlock's stomach that won't go away.

"Mary," Sherlock says, because someone has to. Very noble of him, really.

John laughs humorlessly. "You don't care."

"No, but you do."

"Yes," John says. "But you don't care what I want."

For one hot, blackened second, Sherlock completely hates him. "You're an imbecile." He stares at John's kiss-red mouth, wet and parted and without really deciding to he starts kissing him again.

John groans and deepens it almost immediately, pulls back to nudge at Sherlock's face, nips at his upper lip and licks back into his mouth. Sherlock sucks on his tongue and closes his eyes against the magnetic pull of _want_ that floods him at the sound of John's tiny, vibrating moan.

Sherlock seizes John's listless hands, shaky at his sides, backs him up trippingly through the expansive alien room to kiss him against a wall.

John tastes significant. Sherlock could easily have worked out what he'd eaten for lunch, what brand of coffee he'd guzzled at dawn when moving day had officially begun. He tastes significant because Sherlock doesn't have to work it out—he just knows without noticing, just because it's John.

They kiss unceasingly, and Sherlock is shocked to find he hasn't grown bored of it, yet. John pulls back and gasps for air, then goes to kiss him again but misses and licks his way across Sherlock's jaw to his mouth, breathes his name roughly before sealing their lips again. Pure, sharp lust flares in Sherlock's veins and he suddenly wants to do everything to John at once and all the time and always.

Sherlock reaches down to palm John's cock through his trousers. John stops sighing and encouraging and freezes. Shivers involuntarily and clutches Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, that's not . . ."

Sherlock squeezes and feels him harden even more, removes John's hand from his arm and presses it against the wall instead. Goes to kiss him—

"Stop it," John says, tries to shake him off. "Sherlock, just—I don't want—"

"You do, though."

" _Don't_ tell me what I—Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Goddammit, cut it out!"

Sherlock shoves him more forcefully against the wall, stops stroking to wrench John's arms above his head and keep them there, and really it's much too easy to subdue him—John could get out of it if he wanted to, which given his straining cock and pleading, lust-darkened eyes, clearly isn't the case.

John licks his lips, and his chest heaves with effort. "Sherlock," he says patiently. Just plain annoyed, now. "I know I started this. I wasn't thinking, and it was a stupid, stupid mistake."

"You act without thinking a lot, don't you?"

John laughs in disbelief, then tries to unbalance Sherlock with his knee but Sherlock uses his weight to pin John back against the wall instead. John won't kiss him when Sherlock seeks his mouth, so Sherlock settles for biting at his neck where it smells overwhelmingly like John. Rubs his cock and listens to his shallow breathing. John tries not to arc his hips up into it and fails, says, "Please just stop," without any feeling behind it.

Sherlock's always understood the mechanics of sex, and actually experiencing it himself isn't much of a revelation, really. The addictive part of it is, as suspected, purely mental. Kisses and touches were well and good, but the simple idea of John wanting him like this was better.

"I mean it," John is saying in the distance. He struggles but Sherlock thwarts him easily enough. He can't understand why John insists on making a show of resisting but refuses to make a viable go of it. "I can't do this, I really . . ." But he's so hard against Sherlock's leg, and his pulse is at a presto just the same as Sherlock's.

" _Stop it_ ," John growls, then finally puts forth some effort and shakes him off. Before Sherlock quite knows what's happening his face is smashed against the pristine wall and John is twisting his arms behind his back, breathing into his ear and it makes Sherlock shiver.

Sherlock hears John fumbling one-handed with his belt buckle. He's not sure why being trapped like this against a wall is necessary, but then he hasn't very extensive first hand knowledge in this area, and clearly it turned John on—his erection's digging into him from behind, and John curses as he grinds against Sherlock's arse for a minute like he can't help it.

John tugs at Sherlock's trousers. "Off," he tells him, tone icy and dead and furious, which is probably not good. Sherlock does what he says anyway.

John cards through Sherlock's hair, oddly tender while Sherlock kicks his trousers off, pushes his pants down too at John's urging. John continues to stroke his hair almost reverently, kisses the back of his neck and Sherlock doesn't understand it at all, the way they'd gone from roughness to softness like this. John's fingers trace the shape of Sherlock's mouth, then dip inside and Sherlock understands this, at least. He sucks on them, flicks his tongue a bit just to keep things interesting.

He's rewarded with John stifling a moan against his neck. Sherlock starts to smirk but by then John's removed his fingers and is instead teasing Sherlock's arsehole open instead, sudden and invasive and it burns more than Sherlock had thought it would. He can't help the too-loud gasp that escapes his lips.

He expects John to talk, to rub soothing hands over his back or tell him to relax, but he's terribly silent, stretching Sherlock open efficiently enough, but it's far from comfortable. The possibility that Sherlock might cause John to lose control even further is enticing enough to keep him from saying anything, though.

Once he's got three unrelenting fingers inside of him John spits into his free hand, presumably to slick his cock with it, although it doesn't seem to have done very much good because when he finally pushes into him it makes Sherlock breathless with pain for a moment before he forces himself to relax.

The thing is that Sherlock _wants_ John to hurt him or make him come or _not_ let him come or just anything to prove he's wound up by Sherlock enough to be spurred into action, but John's moving relatively slowly, sinking in and pulling back, then sinking in farther every time until he's landed on a tentative rhythm.

"Is this how you fuck her?" Sherlock asks offhandedly.

John's only response is to fuck him harder, which is fine by Sherlock. He's thrusting too hard and too quickly but it leaves Sherlock desperate, obsessed with grasping at every morsel of pleasure that jumps out from the dull throb of pain.

Yes, Sherlock wants John to want him, and being fucked like this seems to demonstrate that he does, but it's merely an illusion. John is codependent by nature—it wasn't specific to Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, wanted John because he was John, or maybe because John had wanted _him_ , once, but the point is that Sherlock never wanted people, in general, and that meant something indefinable and deceptive that was festering in the back of his mind.

Right now, Sherlock just wants to be touched. His cock is so hard it hurts, but the force of John's thrusts and the way he's got Sherlock's arms still twisted behind him makes it difficult to maneuver enough to touch himself.

"John," Sherlock groans. "Can you—"

"No." John shoves Sherlock's body harder against the wall for emphasis.

The pain hasn't necessarily gone away, but it has been joined by a searingly bright build of pleasure that shoots through him at John's every thrust. He's not hitting the perfect spot, exactly, but he is brushing it over and over and it's a gorgeous, intoxicating agony that pushes Sherlock over the edge. He babbles nonsense and his legs shake as he comes all over John and Mary's wall and his own meticulously ironed shirt, feels ready to collapse but John keeps him upright, fucks him rapidly and it's much too much now because of how oversensitive Sherlock's body is. Sherlock can't stop his wordless shouts and John can't stop himself, either. When John finally comes he keeps himself still inside Sherlock for a long time, just pressing his face into the back of Sherlock's neck and breathing. Eventually he stops holding Sherlock up, lets him collapse to the floor and when Sherlock does finally emerge from his sex blurred state, John's long gone.

*

> **Murder-suicide.  
>  You'll like this one. **

> How did you get this number? 

> **I can't do this on my own.  
> ** **Well I can obviously, it just**  
>  **won't be very efficient.**  
>  **And you're a doctor.**

> Find someone else

> **The longer it takes, the higher  
>  the chance of more people  
>  being killed. **

> No

> Sod off

> **I need you for this.**

> **John.**

> I'll think about it OK? 

*


End file.
